<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Pity the Fool by clightlee</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006391">Pity the Fool</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clightlee/pseuds/clightlee'>clightlee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Arcana (Visual Novel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:40:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clightlee/pseuds/clightlee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Magician offers an Apprentice on the cusp of rebirth the opportunity to visit the six futures ahead of them. Which path will they choose? Will update as I finish routes! Full of end-of-route spoilers, obviously.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Magician</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Besides the Apprentice being Hesperian and wearing lace-up sandals, I tried to leave personal identifiers out of this story. If you want it to be about yours apprentice:<br/>1. Paste text into a google doc<br/>2. ctrl + f to open a "find" bar<br/>3. Search "Bellamy" (my apprentice's name)<br/>4. Click the three dots to the right of the find bar<br/>5. Replace "Bellamy" with your apprentice's name!<br/>6. Do the same with "Grey" if you want their last name changed</p><p>Huzzah!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Three years ago...</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You wake up screaming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But a moment later, you realize: the pain is gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Its memory lingers in your bones: first, the early warning stages, the tinge of red at your fingertips as you dressed a scarlet corpse for burial. You tried to wash it off to no avail. Then the agony, sudden and excruciating, not only in your core but in your mind. You knew exactly what was coming. Hadn’t you seen it play out a thousand times as you watched, helpless and alone behind a beaked mask? Even when your time came, when your vision contracted to a single burning pinpoint of red, it didn’t end; your bones know down to their marrow the heat of the fire, the desolation of the sand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then why am I here?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You rise; you are surrounded by stars. You take a step, then another, and then are suddenly running, gasping deep for the breath that has just now flooded your lungs for the first time in what seems like years. You slow when you begin to feel sand beneath your feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve never been here before. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A shoreline, painted with every color imaginable, has grown up around you. In the middle stands a fox. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not a fox. The Fox. The memory of their face springs to mind unbidden, from somewhere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Fox is waiting for you. They nod in your direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bellamy,” they say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stunning realization of your name brings it all pouring back to you: twenty-odd years of pain pleasure journeys failures fights mastery plague death. And… resurrection? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magic.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re The Magician,” you croak, stupidly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re Bellamy, the magician,” they respond in lower-case letters. “Welcome back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” you manage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Magician tsks. “A friend of yours is on the cusp of making a deal with me,” they say airily. “It’s a deal that’s not entirely theirs to make. I thought I’d consult you before the time comes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You narrow your eyes. “You’re an Arcana,” you recall. “You can’t lie, but you’re supposed to be speaking in riddles. Frankly, you’re out of character; I’m suspicious of your motives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Magician raises an eyebrow. “So I am. So I do. But this deal is of… personal importance to me, and I’m willing to put my customary nuance aside to ensure its success.” They let a sly smile slide across their face, showing a fang or two. “Don’t fret, I’ll be as clear as smoke in just a few moments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You fold your arms. “What’s the deal?” Asra always chided you never to make deals with beings from other realms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asra! The realization of his existence- love- hits you like a bolt of lightning, and you stagger back a little. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be the friend dealing with The Magician; who else would have truck with such an exalted being? A sting in your eyes and throat reminds you that the last time you saw Asra, you were fighting; he was headed off into the plains, far away from the plague, begging you to come with him. You’d stood your ground, already committed to your apprenticeship in the palace fighting the plague, and watched him walk away from you (backwards, a pleading look on his face, eyes welling with tears) with your heart set like iron. It was only later, in the hospital’s back room, that you let yourself collapse under the burden of his absence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Magician has been reading your thoughts, watching the memories fly across your face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s an ambitious one,” comments The Magician. “He’s willing to risk everything to bring you back to life- which is, consequently, of great convenience to me. Walk with me.” They take off striding down the shore. You have no choice but to follow. Only The Magician leaves footprints. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your mind is whirling at the speed of the cosmos. “How long has it been? Since I died of the red plague, I mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Almost a year in your time,” sighs The Magician. You can almost hear them scoff: </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortals</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “But here’s my proposal: if I bring you back, now, you’ll be next to useless for three years more. The… experiment we’re trying today has everything to do with something that will happen three years from now. Are you keeping up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Barely,” you say wryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t try too hard; I’ll be keeping your memories here in my realm, anyway, once you’ve returned. Three of your human years from now, a rival of mine will attempt to seize control of all realms. You could, perhaps, stop him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why can’t you manage it yourself?” you say, stopping and crossing your arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Magician sighs again. “My power is limited in your world. Yours is...” they fish for the right word- “enough. But before I send a dead person back to champion my interests, I want to make sure they know what they’re doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You raise your eyebrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are six different paths you can take, once I’ve put you back in your body four years from now,” The Magician continues. “Live each one out, and I’ll send you back a seventh time, to follow the path of your choosing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds too simple,” you blurt. “If I know you’ve sent me back, and I’m living the same event six times over...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’d never make it quite so easy,” The Magician rejoins, aghast. “You’ll lose your memories each time you bounce forward in time and, when you make your final choice, you will awake in your world with no memories. At all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stifle a gasp. “None?” Your life, as it were, flashes before your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Magician shrugs. “Your price for resurrection. Take it or leave it. Small, really, compared to what your friend offered me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tense; what fool bargain has Asra struck? Is he in danger? You must get back to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I accept,” you declare. “Send me to Asra. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Magician holds up a sable finger. “Not so fast,” they chide. “Don’t you want to revisit your memories, one last time, before I take them forever?” The Magician smiles toothily. “That’s why I’m being so forthcoming, you know. Next time you see me, I’ll be just another card. This conversation will have never happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stand tall, though you’re fighting back tears. “All right,” you say tightly. “Show me my past.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Apprentice visits their past one last time before their memories are erased, and meets the first of their futures</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Nine Years Ago</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You slip out the back door of your aunt’s shop, breath bated, shoes in your hand. You’re visiting Vesuvia for the week before the masquerade, and this might be your only chance to glimpse the new Countess before you get shipped back to Hesperia tomorrow, to audit ledgers and divide grain shares ad nauseum. You must move swiftly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sidestreet is quiet, at least compared with the roaring avenues leading to the palace. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean against a nearby booth to lace up your shoes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want your fortune read?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You peer into the stall beside you. It’s swathed in colorful scarves, laden with intricate glamors, charms, and masks. But the person inside would be hard to miss even in the gloomiest shadow. Their hair swirls like white fire and their gaze is… luminous. They look to be about your age. You can’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” you manage, and drift to the front of the stall, settling on a rickety three-legged stool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Asra,” they say, already shuffling their cards with fantastical skill. “What’s your name?” The look they’re giving you is intense, like they’re dying of thirst and you’re the only oasis for leagues. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bellamy. Bellamy Grey,” you say, your eyes dropping to the array of seven-pointed star charms displayed on the table. Plain Bellamy Grey, your cousins tease you back home in Hesperia. You tend to fade into the background at home, so being pinned under a gaze so avid as Asra’s is beyond disconcerting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asra follows your gaze towards the star charms as he bridges the cards. “You can have one, on the house,” he grins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You make them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My... colleague does,” he explains, and proffers the deck for you to cut. “They’re something of his specialty. Where are you from, Bellamy Grey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hesperia,” you say, daring yourself to meet his eyes again. “City of Themis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. “Thought so. Your accent gave you away. Plus I haven’t seen you around before; I’d remember, if I’d seen you before.” The smile that glides across his face is halfway between a cat’s and a snake’s. You can’t help but laugh a little, feeling more at ease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just here for the week, helping my aunt with the masquerade rush,” you explain. “My family sent me over with a cargo of flax, and I’ll be shipping out tomorrow as factotum with-” you grimace for effect- “general mercantile goods. My family’s in shipbrokering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you clearly live for it,” Asra jokes, that smile threatening to break into laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You roll your eyes, exaggerating. “It’s simply scintillating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asra’s now dealing out. He gestures for you to choose from the sunburst of cards. “Can you get away from the shop for the night? I could show you the interesting parts of Vesuvia.” His eyes are snapping purple; your heart swells in your chest. You’ve never wanted anything more…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sudden gust of wind sweeps the cards from the table. It’s second nature for you to rise and sweep with your arms, sending your magic out like a net, capturing the cards in midair and returning them to a relatively neat pile on the table in front of Asra. Your turn to meet his eyes, sheepish; he’s staring at you, awestruck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew you could use magic,” he mutters, rounding the table to take your hand. “Your aura… your everything, really, but...” he turns your hand over and stares at your palm. Your mark is glowing faintly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this? And where did you learn?” He’s excited now, talking quickly. You tentatively reach out with your magic and feel his, sparking like fireworks as he searches your face. He sucks in breath when he feels you searching him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jerk your hand away on impulse. You’ve always been self-conscious about your mark. “My great-grandmother was a magician. Well, mostly she founded our syndicate, but they say she made a deal with an Arcana to take control of the shipping market... ” the memory of a harsh woman, peering at you from a giant four-poster bed, springs to mind. “Right before she died, she gave me this.” You half-raise your palm. “It helps people see me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asra, surprisingly, throws back his head and laughs. You wonder why; you’ve always resented that it takes a charm for people to pay attention to you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> That’s what your great-grandmother thought, anyway; “You’ll never make a dime like that,” she’d sniped from her deathbed, ever the kingpin, when you’d come to say your goodbyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d gestured to your average, brown appearance and retiring countenance. “Thankfully, someone powerful owes me a few favors yet...” And she’d pressed her thumb into your palm, sealing you with an ornate sigil. Your charm- or curse, as you sometimes regarded it- made people see you. More specifically, it made them see in you what they wanted to see in you. Or needed to see. For some people, it was confidence; they clung to your quiet assurance. For others, it was your listening ear. You couldn’t sit down at a tavern without someone pouring out their life story to you. The curse had certainly helped you negotiate a few good contracts with purveyors of smelt from Galbrada and spelt from Firent, but it also made you question your every interaction. Did anyone actually know you at all?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody since your great grandmother (who was always dubious of the intuitive, ungoverned sorcery, useless to business interests, in your grubby hands) had ever seen your magic before. Until Asra. And even he is seeing your magic above all else. You feel your throat tighten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Asra takes back and squeezes your hand, snapping you back to the present. His gaze softens. “I see you, Bellamy, curse or no curse,” he says softly, lifting your hand to his lips and planting a light kiss on your knuckles. “Let’s find a way for me to see you again. When you come back to Vesuvia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You decide he’s talking about more than circumventing your curse, but your heart is already beating like a hummingbird’s wings, so you focus on the practicalities. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>If</span>
  </em>
  <span> I come back to Vesuvia. My family’s not very permissive with letting apprentices choose their voyages, but- let’s say I did. How would you remember to look past my curse?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>To see me for who I am, not who you need me to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Asra scrunches up his face in a dramatic approximation of deep thought. You giggle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trumpets and the clatter of hooves interrupt your reverie. Your gaze snaps down the avenue, where you see a massive retinue headed your way at a surprising clip. There are elephants. Cheetahs. Purple smoke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s Countess Nadia! Quick!” Asra pulls you out of the street and into the scant shelter of the booth. Pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat, you stare out at the chanting, shimmering parade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hear she’s a reformer, well versed in statecraft and renewal,” he murmurs in your ear. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the whisper of warm breath over your earlobe. His hand settles on your waist, sending you to thrill on another plane entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will she save the city from ruin?” you ask, faintly. Though you’d read extensively on the excesses of Vesuvian culture in preparation for this trip, all of the clever statistics and anecdotes desert you now. There’s just him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s what we’re all longing for,” he replies, but his eyes move towards you instead of the throng. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There she is!” You lean out to see her. If his violet gaze bores into you for a second more, you’ll catch fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Countess passes in her litter, waving serenely to the adoring, cheering crowds. You try to channel some of her poise as you turn back to face Asra. He’s smiling, ear to ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we follow them to the palace?” he asks. The parade has turned into a trail of awestruck admirers, rushing along towards the great gate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every fiber of your being yearns to run to the palace with him, hand in hand, but you’ve already been gone from the shop too long. “Not today,” you sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then tomorrow!” he cries, guiding you back out into the street. “Er, figuratively. Let’s find a way for me to remember you. The real you.” He steps back to regard you. You blush and snake a toe along a cobblestone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your sense of smell can see past magic before any of the others can,” he muses. He inhales deeply and you do too, taking in the milieu of the entire street; you, from the top of your head to the mud on the soles of your shoes; the lingering smell of spent powder, the puddles on the cobbles, the sunlight on stone, the clatter of cart wheels and the call of vendors hawking their wares. And there, just around the corner: cardamom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes snap open, bathing you in his adoring gaze. You’ve never felt so inexplicably at home. “C’mon!” He pulls you out into the street, following that heavenly smell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>